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The Radcliffe Unit in France 
collaborated with the French Red 
Cross in its work of reconstruction 
after the Armistice . It was as a 
member of this unit and as chauf- 
feuse in the devastated regions that 
the writer received the impressions 
set forth in these sketches . 







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Where the Sabots 
Clatter Again i™ 

by 

Katherine Shortall 



Ralph Fletcher Seymour 

Publisher 

410 S.Michigan Avenue 
Chicago 


a 



Published For the Benefit of the 
Radcliffe College Endowment Fund 

IN AN EDITION LIMITED TO 150 COPIES 


DEC -I 1921 V 


Copyrighted 1921 
by 

Ralph Fletcher Seymour 


©CIA653170 






WHERE THE SABOTS CLATTER AGAIN. 


Littlb Grains of Sand 








07 

dt 


















WHERE THE SABOTS CLATTER 
AGAIN. 

THE BRIDE OF NOYON. 


RETURNING flush upon the 
plain. Streaks of color across 
a mangled landscape: the gentle 
concealment of shell hole and 
trench. This is what one saw, 
even in the summer of 1919. For the sap was 
running, and a new invasion was occurring. 
Legions of tender blades pushed over the 
haggard No Man’s Land, while reckless 
poppies scattered through the ranks of 
green, to be followed by the shyer starry 
sisters in blue and white. Irrepressibly 
these floral throngs advanced over the 
shell torn spaces, crowding, mingling and 
bending together in a rainbow riot beneath 
the winds that blew them. They were the 
vanguard. 

* * * * 

In the midst of the reviving fields lay 
Noyon: Noyon, that gem of the Oise, whose 
delicate outline of spires and soft tinted 
roofs had graced the wide valley for cen¬ 
turies. Today the little city lay blanched 





2 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

and shapeless between the hills, as all towns 
were left that stood in the path of the 
armies. The cathedral alone reared its 
battered bulk in the midst; a resisting pile, 
its two grim and blunted towers frowning 
into the sky. Nobly Gothic through all 
the shattering, the great church rose out of 
the wreckage, with flying buttresses still 
outspread like brooding wings to the dead 
houses that had sunk about her. 

But Noyon was not dead. We of the 
Red Cross knew that. We knew that in 
cellars and nooks of this labryinth of ruin 
already hundreds of hearts were beating. 
On this calm September morning the newly 
cleared streets resounded with the health¬ 
ful music of hammer and saw, and cart¬ 
wheels rattled over the cobblestones, while 
workmen called to each other in resonant 
voices. Pregnant sounds, these, the sig¬ 
nificance of which we could estimate. For 
we had seen Noyon in the early months of 
the armistice: tangled and monstrous in her 
attitude of falling, and silent with the bleed¬ 
ing silence of desertion. Then, one mem¬ 
orable day, the stillness had been broken 
by the first clatter of sabots—that wooden 


3 


The Bride of Noyon 

noise, measured, unmistakable, approach¬ 
ing. Two pairs of sabots and a long road. 
Two broad backs bent under bulging loads; 
an infant's wail; a knock at the Red Cross 
Door—but that was nearly eight months 
before. 

The Poste de Secours was closed for the 
first time since Madame de Vigny and her 
three young infirmieres had come to Noyon. 
Two women stood without, one plump and 
bareheaded, the other aged and bent, with 
a calico handkerchief tied over her hair. 
They stared at the printed card tacked 
upon the entrance of the large patched-up 
house that served as Headquarters for the 
French Red Cross. 

“Tiens! c 1 est ferme> y exclaimed Madame 
Talon, shaking the rough board door with 
all her meagre weight, “and I have walked 
eight kilometers to get a jupon , and with 
rheumatism, too." 

“Haven't you heard the news?" asked 
her companion with city-bred scorn. 

“Ah? What news?" The crisp old face 
crinkled with anticipation. 

“Why, Mademoiselle Gaston is to be 
married today." 


4 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

“ Tiens , tiens! est-ce possible? What hap¬ 
piness for that good girl!” and Madame 
Talon, forgetful of the loss of her jupon , 
smiled a wrinkled smile till her nose nearly 
touched her chin, and her eyes receding into 
well worn little puckers, became two snap¬ 
ping black points. 

“Is it really so? And the bridegroom— 
who is he?” 

There followed that vivacious exchange 
of questions and answers and speculations 
which accompanies the announcement of a 
marriage the world over. 

Mademoiselle Gaston was the daughter 
of an ancient family of Noyon. But now, 
her ancestral home was a heap of debris, a 
tomb for men of many nations, which she 
did not like to visit. She took me there 
once, and we walked through the old tennis 
court where a little summer house remained 
untouched, its jaunty frailty seeming to 
mock at the desolation of all that is solid. 

“Ah, I have had good times here,” she 
said in the expressionless voice of one who 
has endured too much. 

For now she was alone. Tennis tourna¬ 
ments for her were separated from the 


The Bride of Noyon 5 

present by a curtain of deaths, by the in¬ 
comparable space of those four years. 

Mademoiselle Gaston had played her 
part in it all. When the Germans were ad¬ 
vancing upon Noyon, she had stuck to her 
post and remained in the hospital where she 
nursed her compatriots under enemy rule 
during the first occupation of the city. 
Something about her had made them treat 
her with respect, although I have been told 
that the Prussian officers were always 
vaguely uncomfortable in her presence. 
There was, perhaps, not enough humility in 
her clear eyes, and they worked her to the 
breaking point. Yet so impeccable and 
businesslike was her conduct that they 
could never convict her of any infringement 
of rules. Little did these pompous in¬ 
vaders suspect how this slender capable 
girl with the hazel eyes was spicing the 
hours behind their backs, and drawing 
with nimble and irreverent pencil portraits 
of her captors, daring caricatures which she 
exhibited in secret to the terrified delight 
of her patients. Luckily for her this harm¬ 
less vengeance had not been discovered, 


6 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

for doubtless she would have paid dearly 
for her Gallic audacity. 

She was small of stature and very thin. 
Not even the nurse's flowing garb could 
conceal the angularity of her figure. One 
wondered how so fragile a frame could have 
survived the crashings and shakings of war. 
What secret of yielding and resisting was 
hers? The tension, nevertheless, had left 
its mark upon her young face; had drawn 
the skin over the aquiline profile, and com¬ 
pressed the sensitive mouth in a line too 
rigid for her years. This severity of feature 
she aggravated by pinning her coiffe low 
over a forehead as uncompromising as a 
nun's. Not a relenting suggestion of hair 
would she permit. Yet whatever of ten¬ 
derness or hope she strove thus to hood, 
nothing could suppress the beauty of her 
luminous eyes; caressing eyes that belied 
her austere manner. No sight of blood 
nor weariness, no insult had hardened them. 
Even when their greenish depths went 
dark and wide with reminiscence, a light 
lurked at the bottom—the reflection of 
something dancing. Yes, everybody loved 
Mademoiselle Gaston. 


7 


The Bride of Noyon 

For weeks we had seen it coming. She 
had told us of her engagement at breakfast 
one Monday morning after a week-end 
visit to her married sister in Paris. It had 
seemed a good business proposition. She 
announced it as such, calmly, with a frank¬ 
ness that astonished my American soul. 
We were pleased. She would have a 
chateau and money, and a de before her 
name. Best of all she would have peace 
and companionship after her lonely strug¬ 
gles. On the whole we were very much 
pleased. Madame de Vigny and her gentle 
niece were entirely delighted. Noyon was 
vociferous in its approval and congratula¬ 
tions. I could have wished—but at least 
I did not thrust any transatlantic notions 
into the general contentment. 

And I soon saw—no one could fail to 
see—the change that day by day came over 
our reserved companion. The stern line of 
her lips relaxed. In amazement one day we 
heard her laugh. Then her laughter began to 
break forth on all occasions; and we listened 
to her singing above in her room, and we 
smiled at each other. That tightness of 
her brow dissolved in a carefree radiance. 


8 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

At work, she mixed up her faultless card 
catalogues and laughed at her mistakes. 
Once, during our busy hours of distribution, 
we caught her blithely granting the request 
of fat Mere Copillet for a cook stove and 
thereupon absently presenting that jovial 
dame with a pair of sabots, much too small 
for her portly foot, to the amusement of all 
the good wives gathered in the Red Cross 
office. They laughed loudly in a sympa¬ 
thetic crowd, and Mademoiselle Gaston 
laughed also, and they loved her more than 
ever. When they learned that she had 
chosen to be married in the ruined cathe¬ 
dral of her native town, their affection 
turned to adoration. Not a peasant in the 
region but took this to be an honor to his 
city and to himself. Gratitude and a 
nameless hope filled the hearts of the people 
of Noyon. 

The day was at hand. The poste was 
closed, for within there was a feast to pre¬ 
pare and a bride to adorn. In the early 
morning the sun-browned peasant women 
brought flowers, masses of goldenrod and 
asters. These we arranged in brass shells, 
empty husks of death, till the bleak spa- 


9 


The Bride of Noyon 

ciousness of our shattered house was gay. 
The rooms, still elegant in proportion, lent 
themselves naturally to adornment; and I 
found myself wondering what former fes¬ 
tivities they had sheltered, what other 
brides had passed down this stately corridor 
before the bombs let in the wind and the 
rain and the thieves; and what remote 
luxuries had been reflected in the great 
mirror of which only the carved gilt frame 
was left? Today, goldenrod and asters 
bloomed against the mouldy walls and one 
little tri-colored bouquet. Flowers of 
France, in truth, sprung on the battle field 
and offered by earth-stained fingers to her 
who had served. 

From the kitchen came noises of snapping 
wood, and a sizzling which tempted me to 
the door. It was a fine old kitchen, though 
now the tiles were mostly gone from the 
floor, and the cracked walls were smeared 
with uncouth paintings, the work of some 
childish soul—some German mess sergeant, 
perhaps, who had been installed there. 
But today Jeanne reigned again, bending 
her philosophic face over the smoking 
stove, and evoking with infallible arts aro- 


10 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

made and genial vapors from her casser¬ 
oles. At her side, Therese, pink and cream 
in the abundance of her eighteen years, 
fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the 
novel excitement of the occasion. 

“La guerre est Jinie , Mademoiselle Miss!” 
cried Jeanne with spoon dripping in mid 
air. “Today I have butter to cook with. 
Now you shall taste a French dinner comme 

11 fa ut!” 

In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, 
polished the Ford that was to carry away 
the bridal pair. Recently demobilized, he 
wore the bizarre combination of military 
and civilian clothes that all over France 
symbolized the transition from war to peace 
—black coat encroaching upon stained blue 
trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of inter¬ 
national intimacy and—most brilliant em¬ 
blem of freedom—a black and white checked 
cap, put on backwards. His the ultimate 
responsibility at our wedding ceremony and 
he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with 
passion. 

The married sister, beautiful and charm¬ 
ing in her Paris gown, was superintending 
the toilette; and when all was ready, we were 


II 


The Bride of Noyon 

called up to examine and admire. The 
bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily 
at us in the foggy fragment of mirror. 
Below, somewhat portly and constrained in 
his black coat and high collar, the bride¬ 
groom marched with agitation back and 
forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasp¬ 
ing his hands in their gray suede gloves. 
The Paris train was due. Relatives and 
friends began to arrive; and little nieces 
and nephews, all in their best clothes. 
Noyon had not seen anything so gay in 
years. There was bustle and business and 
running up and down stairs. The poste , 
usually clamorous with the hoarse dialect 
of northern France, hummed and rippled 
with polite conversation and courtly greet¬ 
ings. The bride appeared. The bride¬ 
groom’s face lost its perturbed expression 
in his unaffected happiness at seeing her. 
Photographs were taken; she, gracious and 
bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly up¬ 
right but smiling resolutely. They were 
off in a string of carriages—sagging old car¬ 
riages resurrected from the dust—while a 
few of us hastened to the cathedral by a 


12 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

short cut to take more pictures as they 
entered. 

The vast nave engulfed us in its desola¬ 
tion. The mutilated apse seemed to be 
far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully. 
High above through the broken vaulting 
shone the indestructible blue, and through 
the hollow windows the breath of Heaven 
wandered free. The little bride stepped 
bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily 
gathering her dress about her. A dirty 
sheet on the wall flapped without warning, 
and we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid 
crucifix, instantly shrouded again in a 
spasm of wind. Passing under an arch we 
entered a less demolished chapel. Here all 
Noyon was waiting. 

Thin and quavering through the expec¬ 
tant hush came the chords of a harmonium. 
Rustlings and whisperings among the close¬ 
ly packed people as the misty white figure 
advanced slowly into sight. At the altar 
the silver-haired bishop turned his schol¬ 
arly face upon her, full of tenderness; and 
when he spoke, his voice seemed an assu¬ 
rance of peace and purity. The service was 
long. In France one listens to a sermon 


13 


The Bride of Noyon 

when one is married, and the pretty brides¬ 
maids came round for three collections. 
The bishop talked of her father, his friend, 
who had died under cruel circumstances. 
Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and 
in a dark corner a sob was stifled. 

“You have suffered, my children. There 
has been a mighty mowing and a winter of 
death, and our mother the earth has lain 
barren. But today stand up, O children, 
and listen and feel. We are united in these 
ruins by more than sorrow. What are 
these pulsations that beat this day upon 
our soul?” 

The words flowed on following the ancient 
grooves of sermons, but the loving voice 
thrilled us. It floated through the dim at¬ 
mosphere into our consciousness, holding 
us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing. 

My eyes trailed to the delicate bride 
kneeling beside a great cracked column, 
and I thought of the tiny blossom again by 
the road, and of those stretches without 
the town, no longer gray, but brushed with 
new color. I saw the daisies and the 
grasses waving out on No Man’s Land: 
like heralding banners of the triumph 


14 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

march they waved, leading out of sight 
beyond the horizon. And as the priest 
talked, my heart throbbed its own silent 
canticle: 

“Joy in the new dawned day, and in 
peace-awakened fields. Hope of the flower 
that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding 
of petals, gently, forever, and in season.” 

“Soyez loue> Seigneurl” the voice deep¬ 
ened and concluded. 

Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike 
chords of music. A wave of movement 
throughout the crowd. And the bowed 
form trembled a moment within its sheath¬ 
ing veil, against the cold stone pillar. 


Little Grains of Sand 


















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LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND 

H HALL I tell you about the old 
woman and her statue of Sainte 
Claire? She was a true native of 
Picardy, and if I could give you 
her dialect, this story would be more amus¬ 
ing. We came upon her in the course of 
our visits, living in her clean little house 
that had been well mended. She was de¬ 
lighted to have someone to talk to. 

“Come in,my good girl”she patronized the 
queenly and aristocratic Madame de Vigny. 
“Come in, everybody,” and we all went in. 

“Sit down, my dear,” again to Madame 
de Vigny. “Those barbarians didn't leave 
me many chairs, but here is one, and this 
box will do for these young ladies.” She 
herself remained standing, a stout old body 
in spite of her eighty years. Her blue eyes 
were clear and twinkled with fun, and she 
had a mischievous way of smiling out of the 
corner of her mouth, displaying two teeth. 
She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady. 

“ Dites , Madame ,” she said, “is it true 
that you give away flannel petticoats and 
stockings?” 


18 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

“Yes, Madame, when one has need of 
them.” 

“Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, 
that is good, that is generous. Tonight I 
shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would 
you like to see my 'tiote* Sainte Claire?” 
We followed her back through a little yard 
and down into a cellar. “You see, Mes- 
dames, when the villains bombarded Noyon, 
I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave 
my home for those people. One night the 
convent opposite was struck, and the next 
morning in the street I found my Sainte 
Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying 
on her back in the mud. ‘Now God will 
protect me,' I said, and I picked her up in 
my arms and carried her into my house. 
And Sainte Claire said to me, ‘Place me 
down in the cave, and you will be safe.’ 
So I brought her down.” 

She led us to a tiny underground apart¬ 
ment, probably a vegetable cellar, and 
there, on a bracket jutting from the mil¬ 
dewed wall, stood the painted plaster image 
of the saint. 

“Voild ma Sainte Claire l” exclaimed the 
old peasant woman, crossing herself. “She 

♦Dialect for petite. 


19 


Little Grains of Sand 

and I have lived down here during the 
bombardment and the entire occupation. 
She has protected me. Look, Madame—” 
and she showed us a corner of the ceiling 
that had been newly repaired. “The obus 
passed through here, and never touched us. 
I kept on praying to the Sainte, and she 
said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.’ 
All night I was on my knees before her, 
and toward morning the house was hit—- 
only one meter away the wall fell down, 
and we were not harmed, Madame, neither 
the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said 
to me, 'The Boches are coming. Take 
half of your potatoes and bring them down 
here.’ I had a beautiful pile of potatoes, 
Madame, just harvested. But I took only 
half and put them in a sack and stuffed it 
with hay. For thirteen months, Madame, 
I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte 
Claire said, 'Take half your wine, and put 
it down the well/ I wanted to hide it all, 
but she said 'No, take only half/ And I 
sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my 
best wine in the well. The Boches came. 
Five of them came to my house. Five 
grands gaillards with square heads. Oh, 


20 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

they are ugly, Madame! ‘Show us your 
wine,’ they ordered. ‘It is there, Mes¬ 
sieurs, in the cellar/ I answered meek as a 
lamb. And they all began drinking till 
they were drunk. Then one of them 
dragged me down here by the arm, and for 
thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this 
hole with Sainte Claire while they possessed 
my house. Thej made me cook for them, 
the animals; but I should have starved, 
Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. 
Then the French began their bombard¬ 
ment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be 
bombarded by one’s friends. I did not 
leave this cave, and I prayed and prayed, 
‘Sainte Claire, save me once more!’ and 
Sainte Claire replied, ‘The French are com¬ 
ing. We shall not be hurt.’ One morning 
it was suddenly quiet: the cannon had 
stopped. I listened and heard nothing, 
and I came up into my house. It was 
empty, Madame. The Boches had gone. 
One shell had fallen through the roof into 
my bedroom—that was all. But ah, Ma¬ 
dame! Noyon , pauvre Noyon! She was 
like a corpse. Ah lala , lala! Que malheur! 
The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how 


21 


Little Grains of Sand 

glad I was. And I asked Sainte Claire, 
‘May I not go to the well and bring up a 
bottle of wine?’ And she said ‘No, not yet.’ 
Se we waited, Madame, until the day of the 
Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, ‘Now 
you may go and bring up all the wine/ 
And, Madame, what do you think? I went 
to the well and I hauled up the wine and 
out of the hundred bottles only two were 
broken/* The old woman laughed with 
delight at the trick she had played on the 
invader. 

“They never guessed it was there. It 
was Sainte Claire, Madame, who saved it. 
I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, 
Madame; we celebrated the victory down 
in our cave, ma'tiote Sainte Claire and I/’ 


TV/TADEMOISELLE Froissart and I left 
^ the Poste de Secours one day, and 
started for a far away village that was said 
to be utterly wiped out. Our drive lay over 
a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain, 
intersected with trenches, with nothing in 
sight but one monster deserted tank, still 


22 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

camouflaged, and here and there the silhou¬ 
ette of a blasted tree against the lowering 
sky. These dead trees of the battle line! 
Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung 
forth in gnarled unnatural gestures, they 
remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly 
petrified in their dance of death. They 
are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They 
seem to move; yet they are so dead. And 
I imagine their denuded tortured arms 
reaching toward unanswering Heaven in 
an agony of protest against the fate that 
has gripped all nature. 

We entered a torn and tangled forest. 
The road was narrow and overgrown, and 
several times I had to dodge hand grenades 
that lay in the grassy ruts. The Ford 
ploughed bravely through deep mud, skid¬ 
ded, recovered, fell into holes, and kept on. 
My attention was so focused upon driving 
that I saw little else but the road ahead, 
though once at an exclamation from Made¬ 
moiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my 
eye I saw a machine gun mounted and ap¬ 
parently intact. The motor was toiling, 
but in my soul I blessed its regular noise 
that told me all was well. Leaving the 


Little Grains of Sand 23 

wood we came to what appeared to be a large 
rough clearing. There were no trees—only 
bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. 
To our surprise we caught sight of the 
jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a 
band of slouching green-coated prisoners 
who were digging in their heavy leisurely 
manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired 
for the village of Evricourt. 

“Mais c est ici , Madame” replied the 
soldier with a grin. 

“Here!” We stared. There was nothing 
by which one could have told that this was 
the site of a town, except an occasional bit 
of brick that showed beneath the weeds. 
All the Germans had stopped work to look 
at these two women who had so unexpect¬ 
edly penetrated to this God-forsaken spot. 
We asked whether any of the inhabitants 
had returned. 

“Just one old man,” said the poilu, “who 
lives all alone in his cellar, over there.” 
He pointed, and suddenlyfrom the ground 
emerged an aged man, white haired and 
erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly 
handsome figure. His beautifully modeled 
head was like a bit of perfect sculpture 


24 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

found suddenly among rank ruins, whose 
very fineness shocks us because of its con¬ 
trast with its coarse surroundings. His 
blue eyes were piercing under bushy white 
brows, while a snowy and curling beard, 
abundant yet well trimmed, set off the 
dark ivory of his complexion. And on his 
head, above the silvery waving hair, was 
placed at a careful angle a blue callot. He 
was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that 
distinguishes the garments of those who 
work out of doors, and a spotless white 
shirt was turned back at the throat. 

“ Bonjour , Mesdames ,” he greeted us, 
taking off his cap and came up for a chat. 
We were amazed at his charm and intelli¬ 
gence. He had come back thus alone 
“because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. 
An old man can best serve his country by 
living off his own land. What good is he 
in a strange province where they eat such 
ridiculous things, and where everyone has 
the craze for machinery? Besides, the 
more one’s home is ruined the greater the 
obligation to return and rebuild it. Cest 
un devoir , Mademoiselle A His place was 
here, unless—with a twinkle in my direc- 


Little Grains of Sand 25 

tion—Mademoiselle would take him back 
to America with her, in which case he would 
willingly leave. I laughed at the compli¬ 
ment and told him to name the day and 
the boat. 

Food? He had scratched a little garden 
by his door and had plenty, thank you. 
Clothing? “Do I not look well dressed, 
Mademoiselle?” We admitted that he 
looked ready for a fete. Company? “Ah, 
Mademoiselle, memories, memories! I 
smoke my pipe and I repeople this village. 
It is alive for me. Look, Mademoiselle, 
that is where the church was—it was a 
pretty church. And there was the mairie . 
Only”—with a shrug of good humored 
despair—“now I have no more tobacco. 
These messieurs ”—indicating the soldier 
and the Germans who were smiling good 
naturedly—“are kind enough to share theirs 
with me, but they are not very rich them¬ 
selves, you see,” at which they all laughed 
at their common plight. Here at last was 
something that we could offer. I usually 
kept cigarettes with me for such emergencies. 
And now I produced two boxes of them 
and several packages of American matches. 


26 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

“Mademoiselle, I accept them with my 
profound thanks,” said the old gallant with 
a bow, removing his cap. 

At length we had to leave. A prisoner 
stepped forward to crank my car, and all 
of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the 
center, lined up and gave us the military 
salute. Before reentering the woods I 
looked back and saw the blue-coated figure 
offering a light to the green coat. From 
cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal 
spark was being transmitted: the spark that 
crosses borders and nationalities, that glows 
in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. 
And so we left them all—smoking; smoking 
out there in the ruins, smoking and dream¬ 
ing of home. Of home and love unattain¬ 
able beyond the Rhine; of home and love 
buried forever in the wreckage of war and 
of time. 


'T'HIS week Mademoiselle Froissart and 
A I spent forty-eight hours in Paris, during 
which time we purchased one thousand 
toys for our Christmas party. Such a 


27 


Little Grains of Sand 

time as I had corailing a taxi to carry our 
large crate of playthings to the station. 
Paris was gay and crowded, making up for 
its four years of gravity, and the conscience¬ 
less taxi drivers were having pretty much 
their own way, refusing all that were going 
in a direction that did not suit their con¬ 
venience, and extorting enormous pour 
boire . I stood on the edge of the mad 
stream of vehicles that pressed by on the 
boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. 
One came, the old reprobate who drove it 
casting his practiced eye about for a likely 
looking customer. He deigned to notice 
me, recognizing me for an American, and 
well knowing our national childish impa¬ 
tience, and its lucrative consequences. He 
drove up to the curb. 

“Where to?” he asked defiantly, blinking 
his bleary eyes, his red alcoholic face set 
in insolent lines. 

“La Gave du Nord .” 

He reflected an instant. “Bon,” he 
decided. I got in, resolving to take pos¬ 
session before breaking all the news to him. 

“First I must stop at the Grand Bazaar 


28 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

to call for a box,” I said in a most matter- 
of-fact way. 

“Ah ga! non! It can’t be done!” he 
exclaimed in a fury. “How do you ex¬ 
pect me to earn my living if I have to go 
out of my way and wait a century outside 
a store?” 

“I will pay you for your time.” 

Still he refused to move. “Descendez, 
d£scendez!” he cried in an ugly voice. 
I knew the next one would be just as bad, 
and besides I had no time to lose. The 
hour of the train was approaching. Basely 
I resorted to bribery: “Look here. Mon¬ 
sieur, I am American and I will pay you 
well. Did you ever know an American 
to fail to make it worth your while?” He 
considered, and looked me over apprais¬ 
ingly. 

“It will be twenty francs then, Madame.” 
This was too outrageous. 

“Ah non,” I said in my turn, but I 
laughed. “ Ecoutez , do you know what is 
in that box I am going to get? Toys for 
the little children of the devastated regions. 
If I don’t take it with me they will have 
nothing, nothing at all for Christmas.” 


2 9 


Little Grains of Sand 

“Eh, what?” His old heart was moved. 
“Pays devaste? Cest vrai? Bien , Madame , 
I will take you anywhere you wish.” And 
he started the car. On our way through 
traffic he related to me over his shoulder 
how his wife and children had fled from 
Soissons while he was driving a camion 
at the front, and that their home was gone. 

At the Grand Bazaar Mademoiselle 
Froissart was waiting with the huge crate 
of toys. It was hoisted onto the front 
seat beside the chauffeur, who, far from 
grumbling at its size, was most solicitous 
in placing it so that it would not jar. “We 
mustn’t break the dolls,” he said with a 
wink. Arriving at the station he insisted 
upon carrying it to the baggage room for 
us. “Hey, mon vieux /” he addressed the 
baggage man, “step lively and get that 
case on the train for Noyon. It’s full of 
dolls—dolls for the little girls.” And the 
whole force laughed and flew to the crate, 
and tenderly hustled it out to the train 
with paternal interest. 

“Merry Christmas and many thanks,” 
I said to our driver, holding out the twenty 


30 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

francs. He did not glance at the money 
and pushed back my hand. 

“Non, non, Mademoiselle, cest un plaisir,” 
he murmured. I protested, but his whole 
expression pleaded. “It’s not much, Made¬ 
moiselle. It’s for the little girls—out there.” 

Passing through the gate, I looked back 
and saw him still standing and watching us. 
He waved his hat. 

“Bon voyage!” he called above the crowd. 
Then, turning, he went back into the 
roaring street, doubtless to continue his 
business of preying upon the intimidated 
and helpless public. 


Vauchelles 






VAUCHELLES. 

*HREE roads wander down from 
the hills and come together; 
and at the point of meeting 
stands a crucifix. This large and 
dignified Calvaire , though bearing the nicks 
of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds 
a sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the 
more impressive because of these marks of 
desecration. It forms the center of the 
tiny village, whose houses cluster close to 
the mourning image and then straggle 
thinly along the three roads. Not even the 
war which swept over in all its ferocity has 
robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. 
Many houses have collapsed, but the 
village still retains its ancient outline of 
peaked roofs, and on all sides orderly piles 
of bricks, fresh plaster and new tar paper 
give an aspect of thrift and optimism. 
Vauchelles has met the challenge of de¬ 
vastation and is setting things aright. 

Is the town asleep? The healing July 
sun softly warms the silent houses and 
their broken walls and closed doors. No 
one is in sight. Yet we have come with 




34 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

our camionette well laden with clothing 
for the inhabitants. Ah! they are all 
away working in the fields. Old Made¬ 
moiselle Masson, peering through the one 
pane of glass that is left in her window, 
sees us, and hobbles to the door to give 
us the information. She beams upon us, 
an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when 
she talks her false teeth move slightly up 
and down. She will run and call her sister 
who is up on the hill, and she will tell 
Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will 
spread. The news always spreads. Al¬ 
ready the people are gathering, for la 
Croix Rouge is its own introduction; and 
these peasants, too proud—most of them— 
to go and ask, will accept what is freely 
and gladly given at their doors. 

The first person I call upon is Madame 
Cat. Shall I soon forget that determined 
little face with its deep set blue eyes, and 
sharp features unsoftened by the brown 
hair that is pulled back from her forehead? 
Or the one room left in that tiny house, 
shattered and bare, yet stamped indelibly 
with the character of its valiant occupants? 
The ashes are swept in the fireplace. Two 


Vauchelles 


35 


burnished shells tattooed in a careful 
pattern and filled with flowers brighten 
the mantel. And the bed! Even though 
made of fragments found in the debris, 
with naught but a hay paillasse and a few 
old quilts dragged through the long flight 
and return, it is nevertheless smooth and 
noble, adorned only with the reverence 
and importance with which the French 
surround The Bed. The daughter comes 
in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine 
profile like her mother’s. They accept 
simply, and with appreciation, the useful 
things the Red Cross offers. In this case 
I am authorized to make an unusual pres¬ 
ent. For we have a few rolls of wall paper 
which we have been holding for someone 
who takes a special pride in her interior. 
It would cover the cracked and damp walls 
of Madame Cat and would add much cheer 
to her little room, besides keeping out the 
wind. Their faces are radiant at the 
suggestion. The daughter will come to 
the poste tomorrow for it. Can they hang 
it themselves? “Ahy c est facile , Made¬ 
moiseller and the mother gives me her 
recip6 for a wonderful glue that will hold 


36 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

for years. They accompany me to the 
street. 

“You will come again soon, Made¬ 
moiselle, and see it for yourself?” 

I promise eagerly. 

Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. 
He comes from his house to greet me and 
holds open the gate, a tall farmer in 
corduroys with gentle, genial face. His 
wife had died during the cruel flight from 
the invader, and he and his three sons have 
come back to the remains of their old 
home. He apologizes for it, though I 
find it immaculate. Shining casseroles 
hang by the hearth, the three beds are 
carefully made, and on the fire something 
savory is cooking in a cocotte . 

“It needs a woman’s touch,” he says 
smiling. “We are four men and we do 
what we can, but—” he finishes with a 
gesture of the helpless male entangled in 
that most clinging, exasperating web of 
all—cooking and dish-washing! “Ca n'en 
finit plus , Mademoiselle ,” he exclaims in 
humorous misery. “One has no sooner 
finished, when one must begin again. Bah! 
It is woman’s work,” with a lordly touch 


Vauchelles 


37 

of imperiousness. It is the ancient voice 
of Man. 

The next house is dark. No one an¬ 
swers my knock, and I lift the latch and 
go in. The windows, being broken, are 
all boarded up to keep out the dreaded 
drafts. It is a moment before I can see, 
though a quavering voice that is neither 
man’s nor woman’s bids me enter. Grad¬ 
ually my eyes make out two wise old 
faces of ivory in the obscurity by the 
hearth. They are old, old—nobody knows 
how old they are. 

“ Entrez , Madame ,” and the old woman 
rises with difficulty, leaning on her cane, 
and draws forward a chair. 

“ Bonjour , Madame ,” in far-away tones 
from the aged husband, too feeble to move 
alone. I linger for some time with these 
two dear souls—for they are scarcely more 
than souls. We talk of bygone, happy 
days, of the war, and of their present 
needs—so few! Then I tell them I am 
American. 

“American?” says the old man, peering 
into my face, “that means—friend.” 

“Yes,” I reply, “that means—friend.” 


38 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

Then I come to a wooden barraque , a 
hive buzzing with children. They are 
clambering at the windows and playing in 
the dirt before the door, all clad in a 
many-colored collection of scraps which 
an ingenious mother has pieced together. 
A little boy, wearing the blue callot of a 
poilu on the back of his head, sits on the 
doorsill. He smiles and stands up, and 
tells me his mother is inside. Within I 
find the mother seated in a room of good- 
natured disorder, nursing her latest born. 
Her lavish smile of welcome lights her 
broad sunburned face framed in tawny 
braids, and she indicates a bench for me 
with the ease and authority of a long 
practiced hostess. She sits there with the 
infant at her ample breast, and on her face 
is written unquestioning satisfaction with 
her part in life. A swift laughing tale I 
hear, of little frocks outgrown and of sabots 
worn through, and no place to buy any¬ 
thing, and little Jean so thin and nervous, 
“but no wonder, Mademoiselle, for he was 
born during the evacuation, and only Cecile 
to take care of me, and she just sixteen 
years old, and I had to be carried in a 


Vauchelles 


39 


wheelbarrow.” I picture the flight, the 
father away at the front, the mother unable 
to walk, yet marshalling her little ones, 
comforting, cajoling, scolding, and feeding 
them through it all. The baby finishes with 
a little contented sigh and the proud 
mother exhibits him. “It’s a boy, Made¬ 
moiselle,” as exuberantly as though it were 
her first instead of her ninth. “ C est un 
petit gar con de V Armistice” with a happy 
blush. 

“Ah, let us hope that he will always be 
a little child of peace.” But in another 
moment she is playing with him, chucking 
him under the chin. “Tiens> mon coco! 
Viens , mon petit soldat —you must grow up 
strong and big, for you are another little 
soldier for France.” 

Little Vauchelles, far away in the hills 
of the fertile Oise, I think of you. I hope 
I may again visit you. And I wonder. 
What ripples from the seething capitals 
will stir the placid thoughts of your stout¬ 
hearted peasants? And will your broad- 
browed women wait with age-old resig¬ 
nation for the next wave of war, or will 
they catch the echo that is rebounding 


40 Where the Sabots Clatter Again 

through all the valleys of the world and 
join their voices in the swelling chord for 
brotherhood? 

In your midst, where the three roads 
meet, still stands the image of Christ on 
the Cross. 


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